A Green Flash

No one in my family has ever met Dad's father. Jade only has one picture of him, weathered, worn, and in black and white. It's a picture of when she first met him, in Burbank, California. They both worked at an aircraft factory in WWII. She was a Rosie the Riveter of sorts, and he was an aircraft engineer. Some sort of chronic illness, Grandma Jade would say, the government wouldn't dare put him in combat. He flew into her life like a storm at sea, and left just as quick. But he knew her long enough to father my dad.

Jade took his last name, as a sort of token, and took to wearing a ring he gave her on her left hand. She would never say if he married her, and we never found any wedding photos. Grandma didn't seem to mind, as she never sought out anyone else.

Grandma Jade never strayed too far from the coast. Sure, we could coax her away, closer to family, for a few years, but within a decade she'd be back by the ocean. She could get by in any coastal town, but she preferred ports, no matter what size. Jade even moved from Santa Monica, saying it was too expensive, but she just moved up the coast  town by town, until she found Coos Bay. Less crowded, she said.

She'd spend nearly day at the beach, or on the docks. We knew not to check her house when we came to visit. Instead we combed the coastline until we found her.Every so often we'd see her gaze at the waves longingly, as if she was looking for someone. Our visits usually ended up being sandy picnics, crabbing, fishing, but Jade never took us shopping at the tourist traps. "I'd never find anything worth paying for." She would say when asked.

Over the years the family visited less and less, until Grandma got sick in the spring. At first, we took turns, dropping by each weekend to check up on her, or if we could, we'd take days off work and school. Then summer hit, and Grandma Jade still hadn't healed. Even then she refused to go to the hospital. So I packed a suitcase and moved to her place for however long it took.

We spent nearly all our time at the beach, only going home at night. No matter how late it was, we could always find our way home. Long after everyone had turned off their lights and went to bed, her house always had one light on. I knew she had a window facing the water in her bedroom. The candle that sat on her window sill never went out. Fishermen would always joke that they could see the light from the ocean.

Then she got too sick to go outside. I did everything I could, from opening the windows to let the draft in, to bringing her seashells I found every morning at the shore. Grandma Jade would smile at me tiredly, then toy with the seashell as if she wanted something else.

It took three days of her favorite meal (salmon on mash potatoes) to get the truth out of her.

"I don't think I'm going to make it, hon' " Jade glanced up at me, as young as ever.

I helped her bring another bite to her lips."Oh, don't say that Grandma. You'll be fine. You're a toughie."

"I'm sorry hon.'" She chewed it thoughtfully, then glanced up at me, her eyes sparkling like streams in the sunlight. "You want to know a secret?"

"Sure." Wondering what on earth Grandma Jade had left to tell.

"Set that fork down and open that drawer next to you. Yeah, that one. The picture should be underneath all those scarves."

I pulled it and held up for both our eyes. It was the picture of Grandpa Jones, the only picture she had.

"Did you know Grandpa knew more than just planes?"

I set her plate aside. She never never had an appetite when she had a story to tell.

"He also liked ships. Big ones. Historic ones."

"You mean, sailing?"

Jade smiled, seeming younger already. "Yeah. He loved to go and rescue men lost at sea." She sighed wistfully.

"Like the coast guard?"

She frowned slightly, as if I was missing something important. "Sort of, except none of them ever wanted to come back. So they would join his crew."

"Wait, he was a captain?"

Jade smiled again, proud. "One of the best. No one could ever catch him."

"But he left you years ago, right? Soon after the war?"

She spoke softer, squeezing my hand weakly. "He came back once every ten years."

My eyes widened farther than the portholes in her kitchen. "Wait...Grandpa Jones is--"

Jade whispered fiercely, grinning. "Davy Jones." She thumbed my hand. "Just between us though, alright?"

I nodded. "So...you're going to meet him."

"Oh, I suppose I'll go and join his crew." She uttered softly.

"And you're not coming back." I swallowed.

"Just promise you'll bury me at sea."

"Of course, Grandma, of course."

Cassandra

There is an entire world between

knowing how to save her life,

and saving her life.

In that world there stands

white-washed doctors,

and mud-slung legislators,

and a computer god,

who judges without mercy.

Here, common sense is worth less

than two pennies,

but her minutes are worth more than gold.

I could buy diamonds with her lucid thoughts,

and rubies with her smiles.

Journal of a Band Geek: Day 2 Knowing the Drill

Today in band camp I met the returning band members. Some I recognized from middle school, but here they act different. Remember that suck-up oboe player who was awkward around everyone? Now she plays saxophone and is the star sophomore section leader. I've already heard rumors that she's in line to be drum major next year. Two years after that and she'll be on a full-ride at some prestigious university, majoring in music education. Gag me with a spoon!

Of course we never talk. I can't march backwards to save my life, let alone memorize a bunch of random coordinates on drill sheets. (What do I look like, a TomTom?) This sets me at the bottom of the totem pole. The only other people in band who get less respect are the other flute players in my section, and of course, the guys in color guard.

Nobody's real sure about the color guard guys. Most years, there's never more than two. Any guy who joins color guard instantaneously loses his man card. What straight guy would dance with purple flags with girly choreography in those gay costumes? At least, we all hope they're gay. It would just be...gag worthy on those practices in the hot sun, with girls more than comfortable cooling off in as little coverage as they're allowed.

The Closed Door

I beat and pound and beat and pound

on that door, that ash oak door.

Just as I turn my heel to leave it closed,

the door yawns open, and pulls my head back,

as if it hooked my ear on a string, a silk string.

Inside the light is bright, but clouded,

and up above I see a ladder with angels,

but instead of the heavens,

I see the wrong wife,

frowning with guilt in her eyes.

Table Talk

In the end, she wasn't sure if her feet left the rooftop, or if she slipped. Rachel thought she might have flashbacks or see her life flash before her eyes, but she only thought about how quickly the pavement flew into her face. In the second before she lost consciousness, Rachel felt her legs buckle and shatter beneath the weight of her fall. She thought she felt her face hit the pavement.

Next thing she knew, Rachel was standing up and walking. She swallowed, wondering  why she didn't feel any pain, in fact, she didn't feel anything at all. Rachel had to look down to see that her feet touched the marble floor as they walked. Her heart would have skipped a beat, except she had noticed that it had stopped beating.

The hall yawned before her eyes, deep, with every surface covered in gray marble. It had no windows, no lamps, no fires, and no sunlight, but she could see down it just fine. At the end of the hall sat black iron doors, and the moment Rachel would have reached to push them open, they opened themselves. Beyond the doors a cavernous room loomed before her, making Rachel stop so abruptly, she rocked back on her heels.

A table stood in the center of the room, gray marble like everything else.  One black iron chair stood on each side, one empty, and one occupied. Rachel recognized that occupant immediately, and her skin covered itself with goosebumps. He beckoned her with a wave of his long black sleeve to the empty chair. Glancing back at the iron doors, she saw them close with a hollow echo. The chair seemed to be her only option. She sat down, looking at the table instead of trying to meet his eyes.

In the middle of the small table sat a game of chess, with each piece in its starting position. One half had carved marble, sleek and simple. The other half had iron, intricate and rich.  Underneath them, rested the chessboard, made of shimmering glass.

"Care for a game?" He whispered, his voice hoarse, but clear.

"I guess." Rachel answered, not really seeing any other option. She moved the pawn closest to her right.

He slid a knight to face her pawn. "Who are you?"

"Rachel Stevens." She studied the board, already having a bad feeling about her odds. How did it go? Win the game and get a second chance at life? Or would she only have a chance at a better afterlife? Who the heck knew all this stuff and bothered to tell the living? Rachel focused on the opposite side of her board, deciding to move one of her knights closer to the center. "I'm dead, aren't I?"

"Yes. Did you want to be?" He moved the same knight closer to hers.

She swallowed, moving her pawn again. "Yes."

He moved the knight away, and Rachel caught a glance of the bones beneath the sleeve. They matched the marble well. "Why?"

Rachel wondered how many times he'd heard this before. "I couldn't face my life anymore." She slid her rook right behind her pawn. It thudded lightly against the glass, hissing as she let go.

"Why did that make you kill yourself?" He slid a pawn right behind his knight.

She wished she had an idea of what he planned next. He seemed the type that could plan an infinite amount of moves ahead of time. After all, he seemed to have all the time in the world. "I was afraid." Rachel answered softly, moving her knight next to his.

His queen knocked out her pawn. "What a waste."

"You don't understand." She swallowed, moving her knight and taking out one of his pawns. "Check."

The room seemed to get warmer. He sat silently for a long time. "I wish you understood. Suicide is one of the most selfish and cruel acts one can commit, Rachel." He moved his king out of harm's way.

"I had to. I had no choice." She moved her knight again, taking out his rook.

"You always had a choice." He slid his bishop until it stood a square away from his knight. "You always did. Until now."

None of her options now seemed good.  Rachel swallowed, moving her pawn forward. "Then why did you offer me a game?"

He moved his queen back.  "I have my reasons."

"That's not answering my question." She slid another pawn forward, trying to free up her more powerful pieces.

"I don't have to answer your questions." He slid a pawn as well.

Rachel saw her chance, taking out his knight. "What if I win?"

"What if you do?" He mused, sliding a pawn behind his queen.

"I want answers." She moved her knight back, taking out another pawn. So far, she had more pieces than he did. Rachel wondering how long that would last.

Apparently not long. He immediately took out her knight with another pawn."That's all?"

"How much can I ask for?" She slid out a bishop, suddenly finding the need to end this quick.

"Indeed." He also moved a bishop.

"What are my options?" She moved her bishop again, as far as she could. "Check."

"You should have researched that before you killed yourself." He moved his king out of her path.

"Well, I'm asking now." She moved her bishop again, chasing him.

"I don't have to tell you." His king took out her bishop.

They were even, with four pieces each. Rachel moved her queen. "What if I asked nicely?"

He moved his. "Probably not."

She moved her remaining knight. "Have you ever told anyone?"

"Most of them already seem to know by this point." He moved his king away.

"I don't." She took out his queen, breathing a sigh of relief.

He moved a pawn, and the shadows beneath his hood seemed to darken. "That's unfortunate. To not know your stakes."

Rachel took out another pawn with her knight. "I guess. I can't change that now."

He moved one two spaces forward. "I suppose." Death sounded bored.

She took out a rook. "You don't know?"

"You're full of questions. No sob story?" He moved a knight in front of his king.

"You've probably already heard it." She moved her queen forward. If Rachel was lucky, she might have a chance now.

"Perhaps not." He moved his remaining bishop.

Rachel moved her queen to his end of the board. "I lost my job."

He moved his bishop directly in front of her king. "That sounds like a poor reason for suicide."

She took it out. "It was a really nice job. I had no savings."

He moved another pawn. "Nothing else?"

"I had no boyfriend. My family were already struggling to pay their own bills." She moved her queen. "Check."

He took out her queen. "So you made them pay for your funeral?"

"I had life insurance." She moved her rook. "Check."

He moved his king forward, bringing her rook within range. "How much?"

Rachel took out his knight. "Not enough." She sighed.

His bishop took out her knight. "Unfortunate."

"Yeah." She moved a pawn forward, running out of options fast. Rachel only had five pieces left.

He moved a pawn in line with his king. "So you're costing them a funeral and a loved one."

"What else was I supposed to do?" She moved her knight.

He moved a pawn, and gained back his queen. "See a therapist. Seek faith. Seek love."

"None of those seemed appetizing." She moved her knight again. "Check."

He took out her night with his bishop. "Better than death."

"Yeah." She sighed, moving a bishop. He was going to win.

"Always." He moved his queen in line with her king. "Check."

She moved her king out of the way. "You think so?"

"Always." He moved his queen with ease. "Check."

She moved her king back. "What if a person's life was hell?"

He pursued. "You know nothing of hell."

"You know nothing of living." She moved her king back.

"Don't I? I end lives every day." He took out one of two remaining pawns. Not that Rachel could have moved them anyway.

She moved her king closer to his. It was the only piece she could still move. "And what do they tell you?"

His followed. "They beg, usually."

She moved her king. "Creative."

"They're desperate." He took out her last pawn.

"They're dying." She moved her king back.

"They don't want to. " His king followed. "Check."

"I do." She moved her king back.

"Unfortunate." His bishop moved in line with her king. "Check."

Rachel moved it forward. "So what? Just another soul right?"

"Every soul has value." He moved his queen in front of hers. "Check mate."

Remember Me: By Lenore A. Pittock

When you look at me
all you see is a
slow, suffering, gray, stooped-shouldered
woman who can barely walk,
is short of breath,
and moves every step slowly one at a time.
_________
Remember who I was before,
laughing, running,
butterfly-chasing child who
danced in the sunshine for the pure joy of it,
through the daises,
measured each step for strength,
and found each day unable to contain
the energy that splashed.
_________
Now you see me no more
but remember me. I am once again
picking flowers,
laughing, running, chasing
butterflies, unable to contain
the pure joy and energy splashing
through me as I dance
in eternity's life with my
creator and savior of my life.

Journal of a Band Geek Day I: 'Fun'deblock

Okay, maybe 'fun' isn't the right word. My legs are still sore and my skin is still burnt redder than a lobster. Actually, it's not that bad, not as bad as Mike's. He actually has blisters, yes, you heard me, blisters, on his shoulders. He put on sunscreen too. Unfortunately, they don't make sunscreen strong enough for people like us. No sunscreen is made strong enough for long practices in the sun. I think the shiny (so far) instruments make it worse. They're like the reflectors valley girls used to tan, before they all got skin cancer.

Anyway, we started out by learning how to turn. Toe-heel-toe-heel. It actually seems pretty simple, simple enough to get your hopes up. Then they get everyone one in your section in a line, and they march, yes, march to mark off the distance between each freshman. Then they teach you how to march to the beat, and no matter how many times you try, you can't seem to get it right. Unless of course, your one of the  lucky kids that went to the other middle school. There they at least teach you how to march in a parade. By the end of a hot-stinky-two-mile-long death march, you'd definitely know how to step on beat.

I'd whine more, but I have to get up bright and freakin' early for my second day of band camp. Someone please shoot me.

Food for Thought

I see the two-sided gleam in her eyes,

as she shovels my every word into her mouth,

and spits it back out with little of her own.

Every so often her husband,

(I'm not sure which trinket belongs to who,

they've been hanging off each other all evening)

tugs her closer to clear up something she said,

as if he's polishing her thoughts.

I've seen little of her mental coffers,

but I've seen even less of his.

Unstable

Lucy stared at the barrel of the gun while I watched. Her eyes widened in horror and mine did too. Move, I screamed at her, but she didn't seem to hear me.  Both her and I stood frozen, as Brian shouted mutely. His hand shook even as he held the gun, frantic. I couldn't remember what had led to this. Brian and I had always been best friends, never more than that. Occasionally I'd give him money when he needed help paying his rent, or buying his groceries.

Then I lost my job. Brian kept coming over for money, which I didn't have. I told him.

"You don't understand. I need that money." He told me on the third day of no money.

"I  told you I don't have any. I have bills to pay too, you know." Lucy told him.

"Please, Lucy. I don't want to do this."

I noticed for the first time that his eyes were bloodshot, and retreating into his skull. Dark circles hung from his eyes, as if he hadn't slept since the last time I gave him any money. "Do what?" Honestly, I didn't want to hear his answer. I knew it wouldn't be good.

His hand reached behind his back, and I heard the friction the fabric made as a heavy object was pulled out of the back of his pants. The sun caught the steel barrel and flashed right into my eyes. I blinked. Then I opened my eyes and saw into the depths of the gun. Somewhere in that inky black rested a bullet just waiting for a quick escape. "I really don't want to do this."

Lucy searched his eyes frantically, searching for a bit of Brian that had waned over the past few months. I thought he had started to resemble more and more the mug shots on tv rather than her best friend. "Then why are you holding the gun?" She asked him.

"I have to get the money, Lucy." He told me, his eyes wavering.

"I told you I don't have it. I don't have a job either. Though, unlike you, I'm actually looking for one." I knew better to question the lifestyle of a guy with a gun in his hand.

Brian swallowed, and Lucy mirrored him. A lone bead of sweat slid down his right temple. "I'm sorry." The safety clicked off.

"My answer's still no." I saw his life before my eyes, everything from getting sick from his sixth birthday cake to the day when Lucy first saw circles under his eyes.

His slick finger had trouble gripping the trigger. Finally, Brian found the hold he wanted, and he pulled the trigger back.

Mr. Anonymous's Wonderful Franchise

May I borrow your face?

May I wear it over mine like a mask?

May I masquerade with your wardrobe,

and shake hands with your favorite clients?

May I borrow a piece of your voice,

and store it in a bottle,

and drink it in,

and vomit out your words like they were mine to begin with?

May I?

Could I?

Can I?

Will I?

There's a reason we only do this once a year

Note: All words enscribed therein I heard during a fireworks show in Mt. Angel, Oregon.

"INCOMING!"

"Where's all the spermy ones?"

"I love the spermy ones!"

"It's not over til the 5th."

"It just hit my eye!"

"One hit my cheek. Ew."

"Don't open your mouth."

Ghosts

The hospital had one,

except it was the sort of ghost

that only followed my shadow

everywhere my feet fled.

to hotel at the beach, warmly lit--

and an Italian nursing home.

_______________

My mother's room had a different ghost,

one that clung to the chambers of my heart,

after creeping in through my nose and eyes.

It plagued my sight after I left the room,

filling it with mist, making my chest throb.

__________________

Twenty ghosts haunted the signatures

in her yearbook,

each curve connecting each letter

was a ley line into her world,

a world I wondered if I knew.